


Just Let It Ride

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Rimming, Wincest - Freeform, panty!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't subtle, Sam isn't one to waste opportunity; Laundry day, panty!kink</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Let It Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous on spnkink_meme: "Established relationship. On laundry day (or some other reason they would have no other clean clothes) Dean has to wear some lacy lingerie Sam once gave him as a gag gift 'cause they have no other underwear. Sam didn't know he had an underwear fetish, but glimpses of it throughout the day drive him wild. When they get back to the motel he strips Dean down to just the panties and teases him, sucking and rubbing Dean's dick and ass(hole) through the fabric. If anal sex happens (up to anon) Sam just pulls the leg hole aside."

* * *

 

     The slide of the fabric over his hardening cock was agony, texture slowly branding him in dips and scallops. Pink but precious lace skated over the narrow maleness of his hips, riding in all the wrong places because woman’s underwear was built for curves, not confines. It itched with each step, soothed on the stride but as blood rushed hot and eager to his cockhead droplets of excited pre-come slicked the pearl knit. Scraping deliciously against his skin each fiber was a dry-swipe kitten-tongue, too much but inevitably not enough. Basting in the summer heat, he could imagine the must and murk of his body soaking into the fabric, marking it as something entirely male.  
  
     “Hey, earth to Dean. I said pass me the laundry soap.”  
  
     “Oh, yeah- sorry Sammy. Here, uh…” Dean bent over, feeling the grind against the soft skin of his scrotum and swallowed the groan in his throat. “Tide Cold Water, really?”  
  
     “It’s eco-friendly.”  
  
     “If you were any gayer it might actually burn.”  
  
     “Yeah, ‘cause caring about the earth is expressly homosexual.” Sam measured out a half-cup of detergent, “You know, I’ve heard tell that strait people don’t even recycle.”  
  
     “Scandalous, isn’t it?”  
  
     Dean grinned, but it was just to cover the sudden jolt in his gut as he shifted his weight and the lace cupping him stretched, caressing his length.  
  
     “Doing okay there?”  
  
     “Peachy.”  
  
     Sam smiled into the washing machine. Dean was enjoying himself and that made it entirely more fun to feign ignorance, to draw out the inevitable. Sam knew it was all part of the game, the thing they didn’t, had never and would never talk about. If love and sex was synonymous then they had never really been brothers at all, just skintwin slaves to the slapstick comedy of past puberty. Doomed to romanticize the inevitable it was better not to ask why and instead, concede defeat.  
  
     Carefully Sam counted out five quarters, pushed them into the coin slot and let the sound of water pouring into the basin drown out the thrum of Dean’s palpable discomfort.  
  
     “No, really. You sure you're holding up okay?”  
  
     “Never been better.” Dean waggled his hips, “I’ll tell you Sammy, these really breathe.”  
  
     “You like it, don’t you? Pervert.”  
  
     “Don’t knock it ‘til you tried it.”  
  
     That was the way it went, banter. Dean was heavy and leaking, straining against his too tight panties but that was secondary to the illusion. They were always brothers before they ended in a tangle of sex-slick limbs. Falling asleep lovers and waking up kin the next day meant never losing one history for another. As fucked up as it probably was, it was just how they had made it work from day one. Tongue-in cheek everything, never expressly acknowledging what was but loving that it was, loving one another.  
  
     Sam wasn’t that easy to fool, he knew there was a pair of clean underwear in the bottom of Dean’s duffle and all the grumbling and the are-you-kidding-me’s were for show; Dean was wearing lace because he liked it. Laundry day was just a convenient way to introduce his little kink but Sam was warming up to the idea, knew Dean was feeling the tug and slide against his thighs, the lace catching against the curl of his body hair. Shift too suddenly or bend too sharply and it would pull and Dean’s over-sensitized skin would translate the pin-prick throb into stimulation, sensation.  
  
     Sam smiled.  
  
     “Hey Dean, can you grab that other basket? I figured we could stow it in the car and grab some breakfast or something. There’s a diner across the street, they probably have something smothered in saturated fat that you can put syrup on.”  
  
     “Sold.”  
  
     Dean bent over and Sam appreciated the view, lace creeping up and over his hips. He’d bought them from a chintzy lingerie store a half-year before and as a joke, Dean had opened them Christmas morning with Bobby watching, paled, coughed and turned a fantastic shade of embarrassed peach.  
  
     “See something you like, Sammy?”  
  
     “Naw, just wondering what I’ll have to tell the E.R. doctor if those ride any higher.”  
  
     “Funny.” Dean balanced the basket on his hip, “Let’s go.”  
  
     Sam sniggered as Dean walked out the front door trying to hide the surreptitious shake of his left leg and the quick-pick with his left hand as he tried to readjust.  
  
     Minutes later they were sitting in a comfortable diner booth eating muesli with fruit salad (Sam) and a Big-Banger breakfast plate, bacon on the side. Dean’s pouted lips glistened with the after-stain of orange juice but Sam was preoccupied with x-ray image of Dean’s cock straining against his jeans, lace tightening against the bulge of his cock, pre-come staining the fabric. Without realizing he ate at all Sam paid the bill and followed the hip-sway of Dean’s bow-legged stroll back to the Laundromat.  
  
     Forty-minutes and a car ride later they were back at the motel room, Dean had been driven to a slow-peaking desperation all day and Sam had enjoyed it, every single uncomfortable twist and subtle readjustment had zinged through him like electricity. Semi-hard and leaking Sam was waiting for the right moment, perpetually wary of jumping the bell. Watching Dean like a predator he clicked the motel deadbolt before sliding the chain and locking the rest of the world outside.  
  
     “You could change now, if you want.”  
  
     “Yeah…”  
  
     “Or-“  
  
     Dean recognized the lithe way Sam moved, the way his body language so easily translated from gawk to muscle. It was the way it always happened, Dean said nothing but Sam knew all his subtle tells; it was like reading a book. Habit made him glance at the curtains but they were drawn, it was private.  
  
     “Yeah...?”  
  
     Sam was unbuttoning his shirt nonchalantly, long fingers shedding buttons like a second skin, like it didn’t mean anything. Letting the silence stretch between them Sam watched Dean wet his lips, a nervous bead of sweat slithering from his temple and disappearing behind his ear.  
  
     “Or you could keep them on.”  
  
     Dean opened his mouth but Sam wasn’t waiting for the clever comeback. Instead, his tongue was lapping at Dean’s bacon-breakfast lip. Sam was taller which meant he had to lean, noses colliding because they both led left by nature. Dean’s mouth wasn’t soft or pliant, it was giving but rough, demanding and forever placated by kittenish nips turned feral, painful. Roughness was another thing they shared, calloused by circumstance their romanticism became hard kisses, sucked from one another’s mouths like they were stolen. Sam nursed Dean’s tongue into his mouth, rocked against his soft lower lip until it was whore’s pink and parted.  
  
     Sam loved the way Dean colored, the way his attitude melted into a thousand gradiated freckles. Smugness was meant for women, cockiness a pseudonym for surety but Dean didn’t have to sell cheap prowess. Sam knew it was an illusion, a lie that dripped like hot spunk and pooled shamelessly in the corners of Dean’s sex-sated mouth. With Sam, Dean was another animal broken to his tethers like a horse to saddle, as addicted to Sam’s nimble fingers as he was to the hard burn of his cock.  
  
     “Sammy…”  
  
     Dean’s breath hitched because it was always the same precipice, the point where he asked himself was it okay, was it wrong. Except he never asked it aloud, quietly hesitating before realizing if he submit he never took advantage, never forced the hand. Sam was in charge, stripped off his shirt and pulled down his zipper, peeled off his musky jeans and rubbed his peach-fuzz cheek against Dean’s velvet sack. It wasn’t soft, it was the wire-brush patina of pink lace stretched just-barely over the weight, full and sex-starved because between instances of this thing they didn’t call romance Dean didn’t touch himself, he always waited.  
  
     “I could suck you through these, just to see how long you could last.”  
  
     Sam’s musing was more for his own benefit than Dean’s but that was because he wanted to extract the moan lodged in Dean’s throat, wanted it to lick over the shell of his ear and breathe it back inside. There was an addiction in it all, that naked and spit-soaked Sam didn’t need to be coddled, protected. Already on his knees Sam licked Dean’s cock through the fabric with a broad, flat tongue. He sucked the slit through the lace, tongued it and let the salt and slick spread across his palette.  
  
     Dean was making the noises he always did, forcing his breath in gruff pants because keening was too feminine. Sam nipped at his thighs, scraped his teeth over the fabric feeling the pick-pick-pick of every elastic fiber as it snapped back, electrified. Sam slid his palms up Dean’s thighs, cupped his ass and spread his cheeks before sliding higher, anchoring his hips and forcing him closer. Mouth breathing hot against Dean’s leaking head he sucked with a fervor, soaked lace leaving shiny spittrails down his chin.  
  
     “Shit-“  
  
     Dean groaned as Sam’s teeth pressed harder, not painful but practiced in their pressure. Sam knew it was another thing Dean loved but would never ask for. Dean watched Sam’s head bob up and down, pink tongue darting against pink lace and getting lost in the tangle. Self-satisfied smile tugging against his cheeks Sam knew all the right buttons, the pressure points that would draw him up and drag him apart. Dean’s was a body he had mapped with satellite precision and because he knew Dean was watching he fluttered his lashes, licked slowly so the sensation was secondary to watching it happen.  
  
     “I know you wore these because you wanted this.”  
  
     “I told you it-“  
  
     “Can’t lie to me, Dean. I knew you were hard and thinking about this, wondering what it would feel like, hoping I would see them sliding over your hips and like it as much as you do.”  
  
     “Sammy-“  
  
     “Tell me the truth.”  
  
     “God...“  
  
     Dean swallowed what he was going to say as he felt the blunt pressure of Sam’s hand pushing against his hole, the stretch of the panties as they tried to give. It was different, more intense for the texture but not enough because as Sam knuckled against the soft pucker he couldn’t slide inside so instead he just let the swirl-and-pressure tease. Simulated thrusts drove Dean quietly insane as Sam’s tongue worked along his shaft. Fabric sopping wet it clung closer to his body, cooling only so long as it took for Sam to work back left, or work down. As the moisture prickled icily on his skin Sam’s tongue wasn’t far behind, confusing the sensations until it all slid together in a sway of want.  
  
     Sam loved how Dean’s thighs shook, trembling under and into his touch because he knew how to play, how and where to stall. Dragging his thumb across Dean’s stomach where it turned from tan-lined to white he traced still lower, from cream to blood-rich rose. Dean was close, teased until his body was single taught sinew ready unravel, to crumble and be for no one but Sam.  
  
     “Turn around.”  
  
     Stumbling into the bed Dean was on his hands and knees, thighs spread wide to keep his hips low, so that kneeling at the edge of the bed Sam’s tongue could press hot against his hole. Dean liked it drier, rougher and so Sam slicked his fingers with spit not lube. Dragging the lace left he swirled his index finger, once, twice and then slowly breached into Dean’s body. It was hot and tight, Dean was panting, sweat dewing on his brow and sliding down the side of his face only to get lost in day-old stubble. Sam was hard against his zipper but ignoring it, enjoying the way Dean shook, the way he tried to suck in every breath and stay in control when really it was Sam who called the shots.  
  
     “I was watching all day.”  
  
     One finger became two.  
  
     “And do you want to know something, Dean?”  
  
     Dean groaned.  
  
     “I liked it.”  
  
     Dean’s orgasm curled around his belly, hips stuttering as Sam reached around, rubbed him hot and rough still trapped in lace. Coming in spurts it pooled, lost in the already-sopping fabric. Sam fisted his softening cock lazily, coating his hand in Dean’s cooling spunk and then dragged it to his tender hole, lubing him with it. Stretching him to a third finger Sam fucked him wide, fucked him dirty because that’s the way Dean loved it, like he was something owned.  
  
     “Fuck! Jesus fuck- fuck- “  
  
     It was a mantra that Sam knew well and popping the button on his jean’s he pulled them down mid-hip, sliding his briefs down only enough to expose his cock. Dean liked the rough burn, it reminded him it was real and so barely lubed, Sam pressed his cockhead inside. Pushing in and bottoming out his belt buckle ground into the back of Dean’s thigh, branding him as the now-sticky lace tangled in Sam’s course hair. Snapping his hips Sam didn’t wait for permission; Dean’s body was an instrument he knew how to play and the slap of his wet thrusts was just another anthem. Blood molten in his veins Sam’s fingers left bruises on Dean’s sides, coating him in moondents as his rhythm stuttered. Sam came in the sinking heat of Dean’s body, let the throb of his pulse-beat wring him out and milk him dry.  
  
     Collapsing onto the motel-stale mattress Sam was panting, arm wrapped around Dean’s waist to ground him and so he wouldn’t leave. Dean’s skin was still flushed but he was sated and content to dissolve bonelessly into Sam’s arms. Rolling over and pressing his forehead to Dean’s they shared one another’s warm breath and kissed lazily because in the stolen afterglow the rest of the world faded to background-black. For a few minutes there was nothing outside their languid heartbeats, no one to tell them who or what to love. Sam thumbed Dean’s bottom lip, smiled into his cheek and then like the drifting of two continents they pulled apart still breathless and in desperate need of a shower.  
  
     “Well, looks like these are toast.”  
  
     Dean slid the fraying panties off and held them up, shrugging. Sam smiled slowly, it was the way it always went; Dean never knew how to handle the calm of the silence and instead of waiting for it to stretch to a natural tether and snap, he broke it. It was delicate truce, fragile in the carved space between lovers and family. Sam’s smile became a casual grin, humor was like armor and it kept  _why_ and  _how_ from spoiling the god-given gift of _just because_. Dean raised an incredulous eyebrow but Sam just shook his head, laugh natural-slow like amber; he had already bought another pair.


End file.
